


all the warmth in your eyes

by sashay_away



Category: Football RPF
Genre: Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Loss, M/M, Prompt Fic, footballkink2
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-11-21
Updated: 2012-11-21
Packaged: 2017-11-19 04:48:56
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 820
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/569277
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sashay_away/pseuds/sashay_away
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Set after Bayern's loss to Chelsea in the Champions League final.</p>
            </blockquote>





	all the warmth in your eyes

 It’s hardly four in the morning when Philipp knocks on Bastian’s door. He doesn’t wait for him to open the door, just walks right in after the second tap.

 

Bastian is sitting on the top of the bed covers, legs folded. He looks up when Philipp comes in, gray eyes clouded with hurt.  Then he blinks, and the smoke gray is like steel, like a wall that doesn’t want to betray anything.

 

Philipp climbs onto the bed, folds his legs just like Bastian. Bastian watches him unflinchingly, like looking up takes a conscious effort. It’s like he’s waiting for a final, terrible blow in the disappointment he expects from Philipp.

 

“I missed,” Bastian says, after a minute. His eyes flicker to the folds of the bed sheets; he looks like a guilty schoolboy.

 

“I know.”

 

He doesn’t have anything else to say, not right now. The scene in the locker room is still in the back of his mind.

_-_

_Not here,_ he’d thought, his brain looping the two words over and over, as he’d walked down the familiar tunnel to the locker room.  

_The Road to Munich,_ the posters declared. It used to make him proud, seeing those posters, a warm feeling in his chest: _Home._

Now it just made him want to tear them off.

 

Mario and Thomas had been sitting in the corner of the room, Mario’s palm flat on his back, offering whatever support he could- and Thomas, slouching , defeated, his face in his hands. Like Mario’s hand on him was the only thing keeping him upright.

 

 Manu had been in the shower, washing off the match from his body, trying to get every trace of the defeat off it.   

 

And Bastian- Bastian, standing in front of his locker, moving with slow calm, like a man fighting for a lost cause. He’d stopped when Philipp walked up to him, stiffened as he stood there by his side, their arms brushing.

 

“Later,” he’d said. 

 

-

 

Later had been maybe fifteen minutes after they reached the hotel, and it was unbearable- every fibre of his being yearning to touch Bastian.

 

So there he was, barefoot and sitting on Bastian’s bed. It was dark outside, but inside the lights gave a warm, impersonal glow that lit up Bastian’s face.

 

Bastian breaks the silence first.

 

 

“How are the others?” he asks.

 

“They’ll be all right. They’re in the other room, you know. Except Manu and Thomas—they’re. They’ll be all right,” Philipp repeats. He’s worrying more about Bastian than anyone else on the team.

 

“They’re young. They’ll have chances--” Bastian says.

 

And Philipp, Philipp should have seen this coming, he should have known after all the talks they’d had after the Euros and the World Cup but he didn’t.

 

“Bastian,” he starts, and Bastian interrupts him with a slight ferocity, like a child insisting that his is the only right way.

 

“They’ll have world cup finals and champions league finals. They’re young, Philipp.”

 

Philipp waits. He knows what’s coming next, and it hurts all the more because some part of it is true.

 

“We’re old, Phil. I don’t expect there to be much more.” Bastian exhales with that last word.

 

 “We’re healthy,” Philipp says, because it’s true, it counts for a lot more than _age_ , it’s still a lot more than many players have.

 

“It doesn’t chang—“

 

“The fuck it doesn’t. We have the Euros, Basti. And the World Cup, after that. We’re not going out without winning. We’re not, Basti.”

 

His voice is shaking. Bastian’s hands are too. His chest moves up and down under his white shirt. Bastian’s skin looks white, pale, only a slight touch of color on his cheekbones.

 

“Lukas called,” Philipp says, after a while, getting up from the bed.

 

“I know.”

 

“You should call him.”

 

Bastian doesn’t say anything, just pulls Philipp in by his wrist. His hand is cold against Philipp’s skin. Bastian leans in slightly. Philipp doesn’t pull away when Bastian kisses him, because if this is what Bastian needs, he’ll get what he needs, today of all days. He just holds out a hand to steady himself, his arm sinking in the soft blanket.

 

“Stay,” Bastian says, as they pull away. It’s uncharacteristic of him to ask; it sounds like a plea more than anything else.

 

Philipp nods. They stay in the room, for the most part. Philipp goes to check in on the rest of the team every once in a while and Bastian offers to go with him.

 

 They don’t sleep the whole night—the reality that they _lost_ coursing like adrenaline through their veins. But it’s better now—Bastian looks less hurt and more of usual steely self, and Philipp’s more than ready to let him be the strong one. He knows it will be some time before Bastian’s less angry—at himself, or at others—but he knows that that time will come. It’s more than enough for now.

 


End file.
